Faolain bears the thief’s teeth with stony dignity as he drives her from the shore of the Ridge. She has never been an obedient mare, but she isn’t stupid; she knows the rules.

She says nothing to him as they swim for the Crossing, counting herself lucky that he is on her deaf side so that she can more easily pretend he is not there. Even with the sounds of his existence muffled in the static whispers of her damaged ear, though, he is difficult to ignore. He’s nearly as big as Tyr, and once they reach the shore, he starts talking.

Faolain does her best to tune him out. She hurts from the swim, and is hit by a bout of vertigo left over from her head wound. Keeping her balance is more important than listening to this oaf, she concludes, though part of her listens anyway and tucks away his words to mull over later.

She can smell the brine and volcanic ash as they near the Lagoon, and her captor takes this opportunity to introduce himself. Faolain, who has given him not so much as an accidental glance, flicks her eyes over him now, making note of anything that might be useful to her in the Lagoon. The stallion is huge and certainly slower than she, but despite her small and agile build, Faolain is unfit for any kind of race. Her fall from the Ridge left her fragile and weak, and though she has recovered in the seasons since, she doubts she will ever be as strong as she once was.

She’s never heard of Warsaw, but she doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of asking. She flicks her dark amber eyes toward him for a moment, then back in the direction of the Lagoon. “Mother doesn’t have a name?” she asks flatly.